Scars (21 page)

I shake my head. “I don’t think I was ready to face it before today. And you helped me to get there, Sandy. You and Carolyn, Meghan, and Mrs. Archer.”

Sandy hugs me again, squeezing the breath out of me. “You two are coming to stay with me tonight. And I won’t take no for an answer.”

I raise one eyebrow. “My mom agreed?” I can hardly believe it.

“I already told her. She’s pretty shaken by this whole thing, but if I know Lori, she’ll be back on her feet in no time.”

He looks at me steadily. “And you, my girl—you’re going to thrive. I can just feel it. And I’m going to be right there with you.”

“I know you will.” And I’m so glad.

Mom parks in the driveway, and we sit here, staring at our house. I don’t think either of us is ready to go in. It’s only been a week, but already the place looks dark and abandoned, the yellow police tape flapping in the wind. It looks like a house where something awful happened, a house that’s finally telling the truth about all those horrible nights. But something good happened here, too. Without meaning to, Dad gave me my freedom.

I unbuckle my seatbelt. It’s not just Carolyn and Meghan, Sandy and Mrs. Archer who’ll believe me now. Everyone who was here that night, everyone who reads the newspaper or watches the news will get a glimpse of what really went on here. Even Mr. Blair called; he’d known something was wrong, but he didn’t suspect this. Now he knows. Everyone knows. And it’s all because of Dad and his gun.

It’s ironic. The man who was trying so hard to silence me was the one whose actions got our story out to the world. I know that’s going to have an impact on me, but somehow I’m not afraid. And I’m not ashamed, either. I just
feel a lightness now, like I can breathe easier. And I don’t think that’s going to go away.

Mom’s been different since we talked to the police—quieter, calmer, more thoughtful—and I hope it’s a good thing. I hope she’s not going to fall apart on me now that we’re back here. But if she does, I’ll handle it. I know that I can.

“Come on, Mom,” I say, lightly touching her arm. “We have to face it sometime.”

Mom nods, and we climb the porch stairs together. I can hear the thud of police boots in my mind again and feel Dad’s arm against my throat. I wonder if Mom’s remembering it, too.

She trembles beside me, and I’m starting to wish I’d let Sandy come along instead of telling him we could handle this on our own. But I wanted to face the house and what happened here by myself. I wanted to know I could do it. We walk into the living room together.

“There’s something I have to do by myself, Mom. It has nothing to do with blades, I promise.”

“Okay,” she says, and she doesn’t try to stop me.

I walk down the hall to my room, floorboards creaking as I go. I look at the bed where he raped me and at the desk where I painted; the room was my prison and my sanctuary—that room without a door I could lock. The pain’s like a broken bone inside me, dull and ever present. But it doesn’t bring me to my knees.

I’ve got my blade with me. I know I can cut when I need to, and I’ll probably cut again. But I don’t need to; at least, I don’t right now.

I take a deep breath, turn around, and walk back down the hall. I won’t sleep in my room tonight. Maybe I never will again. I’ll make up the bed in the guest room and take my stuff in there. And if I can’t handle that, then I’ll crash at Sandy’s instead. I know I have a home with him whenever I want it or need it.

But I want to be able to handle this—to face all the secrets that were hidden inside me for such a long time. I don’t want anything he did to me left locked away in my mind, waiting to ambush me. I want to face every last memory—when they come. Carolyn says too fast can be too much, so I’ll definitely take it slow. But I won’t push them away—not completely—not ever again.

I walk into the living room, and the images of what happened there come at me hard. I tremble as I switch on the lights and see the two bullet holes in the wall. I can feel the heat in my bandaged shoulder—see his face again, pleading with me to understand.

Mom’s still standing where I left her. She turns to face me. “I know I should have stopped him. I should have protected you.”

Yes, you should have.

“We’re both alive, Mom. That’s what’s important.”

“I’m so sorry I didn’t do anything, Kendra.”

I don’t know whether she’s talking about last week or all those years of Dad coming into my bedroom—but it doesn’t really matter anymore. What counts is that she’s acknowledging her part in what happened—something I never thought she’d do.

“It’s over, Mom. It’s all over, now.”

But it isn’t over, not really. I’ll have more memories to face, more feelings I don’t want to feel. But now I know who he is, and this time I won’t be alone. And this time, I know I’ll be safe.

“You’re so much stronger than I am,” Mom says.

I don’t argue with her; it’s true.

“I can never make it up to you, Kendra, but I want to try.”

“All right,” I say.
Make it up to me.

A week ago, hearing her say those words, I would’ve been angry and hopeful at the same time. But now I just feel detached, somehow separate from it all.

I’ve stopped hoping that Mom’ll be the way I need her to be. I just don’t think she can. In fact, I’ve given up expecting anything from her at all.

And though there’s such sadness inside me, there’s a lot of relief, too. Because I know who I can turn to whenever I need comforting, help, or love. I know it won’t be Mom, and I’m actually okay with it now.

“I’ve been thinking about going into therapy, myself,” Mom says. “Carolyn’s recommended some counselors for me.”

I blink, surprised.

Mom twists her wedding ring, then yanks it off and throws it into the fireplace.

“I saw you blossom through therapy, Kendra. You really did. I saw you grow as soon as you had a little support. I was jealous that someone else could do that for you, especially because I couldn’t. And I’ve decided it’s time I took care of myself, so I can take better care of you.”

I won’t hold my breath. But if it happens, I won’t turn her away.

“That’s good, Mom—really good.”

Mom smiles at me a bit crookedly. “I know I’m way behind you, but I’m going to try to catch up.”

“I’m glad.”

Mom’s hand flutters at her throat. “There’s something else I need to tell you. I called the bank the other day and then your father’s workplace, too. It turns out he didn’t lose his job. He’d cut back on his hours himself, told them he had a family emergency.”

I stare at her, letting that news sink in.

It’s hard to believe that Dad pretended to lose his job and told us all those lies just to follow me around. He worked hard at trying to keep me quiet; he must’ve panicked that I’d eventually remember who he was and talk about it. Well, he was right about that part.

I realize Mom’s still talking, that I’d totally tuned her out.

She looks at me, her eyes watering. “He never even applied for a loan. The bank says our mortgage is in good shape—and there’s more savings than I even knew about. So we don’t have to move after all. Not unless you want to.”

“I don’t have to stop going to therapy? I don’t have to
pull out of the art group, and I don’t have to change schools?”

Or leave Meghan?

“No, Kendra. Definitely not.”

My stomach twists, but this time, it’s a good feeling.

I push her a little further. “And Meghan can come over whenever she wants? You’ll make her feel welcome?”

Mom swallows. “I will.” She touches my cheek. “And I promise I won’t criticize your artwork, either—if you ever decide to show me anything else.”

I almost can’t believe her. I guess last week was life-altering for her, too.

“And you’re okay with that?”

“I will be. I promise.”

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s try it.”

Mom throws her arms around me. “Oh, sweetie, I’m so relieved to hear you say that! I was afraid you were going to run away a few weeks ago.”

“I was.”

“It’ll be different now, I promise. You’ll see.”

Yes, I’ll see
. If things get better between us, that’ll be nice. But whether they do or not, it won’t unbalance me. Because I’ve got my art to get me through; I’ve got people in my life who love me.

Happiness is just waiting for me to take it; I truly believe that now.

I stare out the window of the guest room at the pine tree that blocks our house from our neighbor’s.

It’s been nine months since we were on the news. And nine months that Dad’s been sitting in prison, waiting for his trial to begin. They’re going to charge him with rape and attempted murder. And if that last charge sticks, he’ll do a lot more time than for the rapes, even though the rapes hurt me the most. But I don’t care what he’s charged with, as long as he can’t hurt anyone ever again.

The prosecutor keeps saying how brave I am and how strong. And I guess I am, but I don’t really see it that way. I’m just doing what I have to do.

Mom’s supporting me on this, even now that she’s had time to recover.

But I can’t help wondering sometimes, if she’d be sitting there crying into her tissues in the prosecutor’s office with me if Dad hadn’t lost it that day—or if she’d still be in denial about everything he’d done. But I know she believes me, now, and that’s something I’m grateful for.

I’m starting to learn how to be happy for more than five minutes at a time and how to really hope and trust. And I’m finding out what it’s like to sleep through an entire night without any nightmares.

I still have my bad days, when the memories press down on me like concrete, when they crush out all the joy—but those days are coming less and less often. Carolyn’s been working with me to help me see that I can choose when to look at a memory and when to put it away.

She’s also encouraging me to find other things I can do instead of cutting, and she keeps giving me steady support. I can feel myself changing—growing stronger. I’ve only cut a few times since Dad was put in jail. That’s a miracle in my book.

I’ll probably never know if I’d have been drawn to cutting if
he
hadn’t taught me how to use it to keep me silent. I don’t think it was always just me repeating the abuse or being under his control. My cutting was about trying to deal with more pain than I could handle. I’ve got other ways of dealing with it now, ways to pull myself out of it if I need to. And I have ways to get the comfort I need that don’t come from the edge of a blade.

I catch myself staring at my arm sometimes, trying to figure out which scars were the first—the ones he made me cut. But I don’t wonder for very long; I really don’t want to know.

Other times, I look at my scars and see something else:
a girl who was trying to cope with something horrible that she should never have had to live through at all. My scars show pain and suffering, but they also show my will to survive. They’re a part of my history that’ll always be there.

And now, sometimes I don’t bother hiding the scars. I just let them show, even though I get stares, rude comments, and questions from strangers. I figure I’ve already gone through the worst; getting stared at isn’t that big of a deal.